Off The Old Block

A knock comes to the estate’s door from Fidel.

This is yet another sign of Renard’s fate, another pointer towards inevitability! Let this not be anything serious, and let him only wish to give thanks for the humble peace he has found as a hunter! Part of Renard recoils.

More of Renard bounds gleefully over, guffawing with raucous laughter. This is it, and this is the sign! The course is becoming more clear and more sure. Renard opens the door with such enthusiasm he near rips it off its hinges.

Fidel stands before him, expression composed and back straight. Though the ragged look of physical labour clings to him still, in his messy hair and robust clothes, the slavish air of poverty is now gone, replaced by quiet but natural pride and intrepid determination.

“Sir," he says, “good morning."

“And hail to you, young Fidel. It is a grace as the passage of swans on the river to have you before me again. Tell me, has the good huntsman been keeping you well?"

“Yes. Y-yes, sir," Fidel stumbles, taken off-guard at the earnestness of Renard’s greeting. “He has been excellent, and I have been…" He thumbs the buttons of his shirt, by no means a luxurious garment, but much better than the rags he once wore. “I’m very glad you bid him to take me."

“Oh, but it is only a favour to him that he would have such a capable student." I have heard thrilling tales that somebody has gone and felled one of the largest wolves in this region on record.

Fidel blushes slightly. With that prompt, he divulges his own account of the wolf-hunt, but soon trails off and stops himself with a note of hesitation and confusion. The attitude of this conversation has diverged from what he intended when he came to this house, and in Renard’s enthusiasm to talk, they are still chatting at the stoop. Fidel is awkwardly unsure how to change the subject with Renard being so chatty.

“And the pelt of such a beast must have made quite the trophy!" announces Renard.

“Oh, yes. The master took the smaller ones, of course, so I could keep the larger…" Fidel tilts minutely to and fro as if steadying himself against a battering of wind. His voice weakens with an odd, bitter, but self-targeted coolness, “it was worth frighteningly more coin than… I knew what to do with. Sir, I—"

“Hold, Fidel," Renard interrupts, feeling a shift. “Let us speak elsewhere." He glances over his shoulder as if to lead Fidel into the house — and surprises the boy by instead stepping out to usher him tersely along the grounds, glancing every now and again to check they haven’t been followed. That Renard plainly wishes this conversation kept secret strikes Fidel as extremely odd, and makes him fall quiet in suspicion, as he is guided into an empty stables on a corner of the property.

Only mildly weathered, this stable is a new addition to the estate, built in Renard’s time rather than Asphodelis’. It is also, on second inspection, less so ‘empty’ as simply ‘unused’, with no hay laid in any lot and every rib of pale wood clean of any muck that comes with animals. There is a larger space in the back of the structure that Fidel deduces must be a garage or workshop, as it has a long bench littered with tools, cans, and strangely some books.

Renard seats himself upon a crate, the only chairs in this space, and Fidel distantly follows suit.

Renard massages his knuckles as he inspects the boy, who is distracted staring over the empty stables, the lots, the benches, the ceiling, as if wrenching information from every speck of dust and grain of wood available. He is plainly uneasy in this environment, and would have preferred the comfortable familiarity of the parlour.

Guilt stabs Renard at this thought. Strange, the worry in Fidel’s eyes as his gaze lands finally upon Renard; as if the silence is meant to be as intimidating as it is, and not simply a byproduct of Renard’s insides being a hurricane so dissonant — of well wishes, good intentions, guilt, pain, and the curiosity of whether his dark anticipation from the past months will be met — that he is simply unable to find words to speak.

If he opens his mouth, he cannot tell whether the voice that comes out would be his own, bubbly and fawning and apologising at the boy’s feet, or the Iron King’s, great and cruel — or a mix of both so puzzling it would be utterly useless.

“All right, boy," he grates out of his throat. “Burst the pustule on this goose."

Fidel smiles, distracted from his edginess by the strange turn of phrase. “This may be so large, the explosion would stain all the poor bird’s feathers."

“Kill the damn thing," Renard laughs darkly, unconsciously miming slitting a throat. “Let it bleed on the floor."

“Well, I’ve been very happy in Meurille. I deceive nothing about that." Fidel leans back on the crate, the ramrod formality melting under the lurid little wordgame. In its place returns his natural air of dominance and authority, as though he has forgotten in this moment who Renard is, how scary Fidel finds him, and his superior rank. “I suppose, sir… I suppose, for all my gratitude, I’ve come to wonder, if this town," he looks up again to the ceiling, “is… if this is all there is, for me."

Renard opens his mouth to speak.

“I’m not dissatisfied," Fidel quickly adds. “I’m not dissatisfied. This opportunity is greater than any with which I’ve ever been blessed, and I’m not blind to what… extensive good Meurille has cast upon my life. It is like a spring from which flows many powerful waves. The people have been kind, and I love all I’ve met here dearly. I do. I truly do, honestly," he insists, a wetness creeping into his voice. He gulps a hard breath. “B-b-but, I am, so… I-I-Is this it!? After it all, the line of Asphodelis is… disappeared into the muck of a two-bit animal hunter for some podunk locale." He gulps again. “It does not even sound bad!"

“Oh, child…"

“I’m sorry. I know this is more that I would ever else have, and I know these matters shouldn’t vex me. We weren’t any famously eminent Dukes, and Father’s failings are not even my fault to mend! The legacy was forfeit soon as I was born…" He wipes his face. “So nothing was for me. But what do I care! What is for most people? They are fine, they are happy, these commoners do their work well… they’ve enough money and love and camaraderie; at home, they are not yelling or thieving or throwing bottles. And yet I am too ashamed to even speak my name in this place, or in any place that I can think! Fidel Asphodel — who hunts wolves!" he screeches through tears, as though the very idea is murder. “It’s asinine! That it even hurts, it is asinine…"

His words dissolve into heavy sobs. Hisses intersperse the weeping as he attempts, and fails, to reclaim even a speck of composure. Renard lumbers over to steady the boy and squeeze his shoulder, but the instant he makes contact, Fidel grabs him and squeezes his face into Renard’s chest. The tears, though hidden, trail hotly, and the motion morphs quickly into a hug.

“There, alright now. Come now," Renard mutters, patting Fidel’s back. Slowly, the boy’s breaths ease smoother, though still sharp, and the weeping wanes as an outgoing tide.

Too caught in his own emotions to even be embarrassed at this display, he withdraws and absently wipes his face, sighing.

“I know it wouldn’t heal Father," Fidel mutters. “But I thought so much… Sir Renard, I thought I might murder you," he chokes on the word. “And reclaim Meurille… I keep imagining that I could. But the people here are so happy," he strains, tears trailing down his face, “I couldn’t… imagine any backhanded means producing… anything, anything like this. These thoughts and desires are just unconscionable. I wouldn’t make anything good, I wouldn’t even hold the polity for long…"

He chews his lip.

“My sense tells me these truths. …So it wouldn’t be you, Sir Renard, but if I listen to my heart… I think I will kill somebody." Fidel smiles strangely, nervous but happy to have shared this deep secret. He lays his hand neatly on his lap, gulps, and after a glance to confirm Renard heard him, stares blankly ahead at a wall. “You’re a great man," his voice trembles so weak, “what would you think I do."

Renard squats down to meet Fidel’s level, considering the question.

Could a boy sobbing like this really kill people? The question is somewhat beside the point for Renard. If Fidel could commit murder, he’s not at that point yet — so rather, the question is...

“Fidel, must you carry the name your Father lost if it only binds you to his ires?" Renard tests. “Any syllables are suitable to swaddle a soul; if it be a shame that Fidel Asphodel hunt and not govern, could that skill not instead be a glory for Fidel Birch, or Balthazar Leto? You speak correctly that Meurille is not anywhere known."

“But it is me," Fidel insists. “That words could erase fifteen years… it’s me, Sir Renard, it’s still me," he scoops up his hands, begging.

Indeed, Renard thinks, rubbing his chin.

“It would be such a betrayal," Fidel spits, clenching at his heart, but then seeps in a doubt. “Or do I think too grandly of my limits…"

“Ease, boy. Calm yourself steady. Your thoughts are right; I shall talk when you are ready."

Renard again squeezes his shoulder. Fidel huffs out a long breath as he now comes to realise how badly he has been crying. He sniffles, and snuffles, and slowly brings himself even. Sighing, he nods.

“Verily then, I will tell you, Fidel." Renard stands. “One thing may erase fifteen years of a history; and that is another fifteen. If ‘twould Fidel Asphodel loathe to live commonly, so too would be Fidel Birch, although perhaps more quietly. Here, you have already broke."

“Broke," Fidel mutters as if slapped. His face flattens sober. “Then, you did not mean I should actually entertain a new name… correct?"

“I… did not, young Fidel."

“Then for what did you tell me…"

“I spoke that you may consider, how well you may endure though such distasteful circumstance. By five years of indignity, you may become something decent; but be that first tide too unbearable, you will snap and not succeed," Renard answers, surprised at the cogency of his own words. “Equally I measure your skill for self-deceit. But only grows my surety, you’ve no satisfaction to find in humility."

And that’s a sad thing.

Renard steps back to roll his own ideas around in his head. For how eagerly that ‘dark part’ of himself yearned for Fidel to return and beg, when actually faced with the boy, it really is just sad.

Inside Renard’s heart there is an image of Fidel; here, he is a simple but well put-together boy, happy, standing upon the main street of a city on a sunny day and comfortable, like a trundling breeze, that all he would meet would be glad to meet him. All gates of possibility are open, and he would excel in any. Massive, grey hands descend into this vision and rip off the boy’s head, that his eyes roll and jaw gapes, and with that death, the entire bright world, like his soul were a candle snuffed, and the scenery were mere mirage, vanishes into black.

The murderer is revealed; it is a second Fidel in a void, not any larger than Renard yet towering over the tiny space where happened the bright scene in the city. He crushes and rolls the head of his smaller self in his fingers, until it is trailing dust and then nothing, eyeing Renard dispassionately and yet curiously as he does.

Renard straightens himself.

“Now, what do you want, boy?"

“From you, sir? Well, I thought…" but he trails off, shifting from staring longingly up at Renard to glancing down at his cupped hands as if realising something. His brow quirks. “I want to kill something."

“Oh, come now."

“I do! I truly do. It’s a shockingly deep hunger. Maybe it runs in every nobleman’s blood, and that’s why we kill each other so much," he mutters.

“Some wolves didn’t sate it," Renard notes. “Where is the moon, boy?"

Fidel pauses to consider the question, then slumps. “I just wish Father wasn’t like that," he says. “I wish… I could’ve been what I would’ve been if he hadn’t… sold it all." He sighs. “…Or something like it. It’s so…" He presses his forehead to his palms. “Stupid, arrogant… What’s to say I would’ve done well? I would’ve done better than Father," he quickly adds. “But a title, a house... so what is that for a man. Would I be much any better than I am if I’d been born spoilt to lord over laws." He gnaws his lip, then bursts. “That’s why it’s so frustrating. I know it doesn’t matter; real great men earn these houses with deeds, and if I’ve that capacity…!"

“Young Fidel, hear your own words. What attracts you is no house or title. What you desire back is your soul."

Fidel’s spine shoots straight as if struck with an arrow, himself reeling at the observation. He squawks incredulously, “my soul is right here!"

“Nach, nach. For what imposition it be that a noble demand the rights of their birth; nay, it is merely a procession of order," Renard continues. “There is what your Father broke when he opened his ear to a salesman. Such ruling men who buck their yokes are cast down to burn, I know." Their own will, rather than that of the Demiurge… “But what feeds a child too into fire is only hubris. Yes, Fidel. Had you kept the entitlements your blood had owed, you would be greater than you are now."

Fidel’s eyes widen, his fingers clenching the edge of the crate, as if he has never, absolutely never, heard these words affirmed before.

“Never would you have doubted, nay, questioned, your rightness to exalt yourself. As a lark singing on a twig, that flits from tree to tree, you simply would have done it. What that man did is break your wings, that you must curse either the sky, your heart, or your limbs."

Fidel glances down at his hands.

Renard rubs his chin. “Now, what can say I, that it would not have been you to then squander the fortune? But the matter is elsewhere."

“—Sir Renard," Fidel interjects. “Exactly, there I question, I speak in this way—but, I-I am not, truly… a noble."

Renard stares at him dully.

“I’m not," Fidel continues. “By law, circle, upbringing. I haven’t the deed to anywhere." He rolls his eyes, shrugging open his hands at the surrounding stables. “I am furious that a potentiality that could never happen got taken away. I’m mad about something that never existed."

“Certainly it existed, Fidel," Renard says quickly with surprising concern. He then snorts at himself. “The first thing my wife asked me upon seeing you was your house."

Fidel falls quiet, staring at the ground. His shoulders tremble, and his body quakes as though he might start crying again. When Renard goes to take the boy in another hug, Fidel steadies himself and pushes Renard away, not needing it. Fidel stares at the ceiling and composes a thought.

“Sir Renard, I question," he says. “If it is only natural procession that a ruler begets a ruler, how is it that you have come to be Baron? And a good Baron." He pauses. “Or any first ruler. Because if you say, it is true there is falling, will you say there is only a fall? How do those rise, who come from the commons, or by what quality? Some happen."

“Some do," Renard concedes, staring distantly at an unseen horizon. The genuine nature of the question catches him, and answers do swirl around in his thoughts: appointment, and then comes another word: esteem. But those are only general answers. In Renard’s case specifically, the fitting word is, penance.

Penance. His hand lands heavily on Kingslayer’s hilt, tilting the blade in its scabbard. But maybe that word is deceiving. With the signs moving around Nix, this comfortable life is now less feeling like a final reward for a good job completed, than a transient reprieve in an eternal contract that demands really only one end.

“Fidel," he says.

Fidel sits up.

“What I have spoken in this room to you," Renard says, “are glories recycled from minds righter and wiser than mine. Such thinking lifted me from what I may only call villainy; had you have known me without them, you would look upon me only to spit. But now I will tell you the one wisdom I have conceived by myself."

Fidel nods, murmuring to himself, “surely not so bad…"

Yes, boy! Yes, you fool boy, I very much was, and I would throttle your neck that you would see how cute your little death fantasies are beside me! Renard swallows the sentiment behind a rictus grin and point his finger to the sky to announce, “of all the acts of a man, but one is unquestionably just!" He swishes his finger down, “and that is," his hand lands upon Kingslayer. “The killing of evil."

Fidel’s eyes widen boyishly at the dramatic flourishes, but his brow crinkles at the conclusion.

“My life’s one surety dissatisfies you? Speak up, where is your trouble?"

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought… it is just an odd thing to hear. I suppose it is right, but, my heart sees it broad. How may something so abstract be actioned?"

“Ho, boy. I am no mystic. I do not speak a trifle of abstract." Renard sucks his lip. “What men extol as heroics — I will tell you boy, it is just that, a dragon guttering its blood in gouts and a ghoul that collapses with a great thump — that you see and touch, corpses! I speak of the killings that provoke men to love you, for what you have killed is evil." Renard straightens, staring off vaguely. “A scoundrel or a saint is exalted the same for the rightness of this deed."

“I know you must speak by experience," says Fidel. “But a wolf that takes a sheep, for the menace it is, hardly is evil. A ghoul—"

“Close your ears, will you, to the existence of evil!" Renard snaps. “Nay! Where evil is felled, I tell you, it is as the sun breaking through a storm. It is as solid as the wind, that you will not see, but that will batter you to the ground! A heart that beats for sympathy of a creature that will sup upon men’s blood, rip away a woman’s chastity, and rend open the chests of babes; for it is without capacity of else; is the shell of piousness most wicked. Are you in those things? You are not! Collect your sense, boy."

Face beet red in embarrassment, Fidel lowers his gaze and nods.

“Now, I will tell you, I am no judge of men’s souls. I became heroic in the way of an undertaker," Renard spits, “a disposer of dead and of corpses, for there was nothing else just without question. It is the one deed just without question. It is by that desperation I became intimate enough with the dark to succeed in it; I cannot teach you how good men succeed in the light." Renard’s shoulders slump upon hearing his own words. It’s shameful, and frankly too honest.

Rather than disgust, Fidel’s eyes widen again with curiosity. “Sir Renard, I cannot imagine much malefaction happens in Meurille. And you’re here."

He’s right. Well, it is mostly Colette— Well, that’s the work of the citizens— Well, this is just a reprieve in a terrible contract—any of these deflections would mean undermining the truth of how well Renard has done in simply not running and ruining this Barony into the ground, as regardless the efforts of anyone else, to do so was very much in his capacity. A strange lightness pools in the dark bog of his chest, and for the first time, the thought crosses his mind that if he were to descend into Nix, he might actually come back.

“Is it statesmanship you think I may teach you?" Renard asks.

“Truthfully, I’d rather learn the sword," Fidel admits sheepishly as he swings himself onto his feet. “But from you, I would take anything."

So it was not truly about being great at all! The dark part of Renard screams, but falling, back down into silence and disregard, as the rest of Renard’s heart can only think: oh, boy…

Renard puts his hand to his forehead, as if bracing himself against a great tide. Indeed, the sunlike wave that sweeps through his heart is warm, unrelenting, and utterly incontrovertible. He stifles back the great emotion, lowers his hand, and releases the breath.

Steadied, he walks to Fidel. “Come then," he says, taking the boy by the shoulder. “Let us keep you in the house tonight, and speak with the huntsmaster in the morn."